Five whites, two Blacks: three Jews, four Catholics. Not the
first line of a joke that ends with, "walk into a bar," but the
eclectic roster of men, over the age of 70, whom OurTime.com suggests are my
matches.

Although I've
often said I'm not eager to meet a new man -- either for companionship and
especially not marriage -- it appears I lied, or changed my mind. Likely the latter,
as I've been known to do that often in my roller coaster years.

Who
needs a man? I would toss at my daughters or friends who wondered/worried
at my inclination to cuddle with Netflix rather than seek a male in my widowed
life.

Another excuse
I have used for disdaining dating was that my second marriage to Tommy was so
content, so stress-free (if you don't count the three years of caregiving
before he died), that it'd likely be difficult to find someone as compatible as
my dearly departed. "Low maintenance," was how I described him. And
even when his aphasia and the trickling of dementia entered our union, he
remained upbeat and sociable.

But now, as
I'm attempting to confront a few items in my life that I realize are
fear-based; i.e. swimming and driving an unfamiliar car, it hit me that dating
is numero tres on the list. Because Our Time is targeted to older singles, I
thought I'd give this virtual gang another go.

Fear of rejection
certainly accompanies these searches, but fear of leaping into a relationship
with the wrong guy is equally daunting. Because my two husbands sought after
me, I didn't have to face rejection. My first, who I was married to for 30
years, chose me (until he didn't), and although I asked Tommy out for our firstdate, after that he wouldn't leave my side.

In between
those two marriages, during my six years of singleness, I grabbed onto guys
that any clear-eyed person could've seen were absolutely wrong for me. But in
my pathetic neediness, I chose to refurbish their personalities and foibles
until each one shined like a matinee idol.

I see a
pattern in the romances I leapt into during that break: the men had an air of
danger. Evidently, I had reverted to high school where the Tony's of my world
triumphed over the Sheldon's. Ducktail haircuts, Lucky Strikes in their t-shirt
pockets, ditching school; could anything have been more alluring to a good,
little, Jewish girl?

My
relationship with the adult bad boy I chose in the space between wedlocks lasted
for several years. He was such an antidote to my rigid, silent first marriage that
I batted away warning signs as if they were foam rubber baseballs. So he drove too fast? So he smoked? So he
smoked weed? So he channeled new age gurus? So his apartment was a mess? So he
was a sloppy dresser? So he had intimate conversations with his harem of women
friends?

Get the
picture? Eventually, it was the last so that ended the idyll. Despite all of
the cons that mounted like a child's tower of blocks, I was still attached and jealous
of his bond with his bevy of gals. When challenged, he chose them rather than
me. I whimpered for a bit, then realized I had dodged a bullet. (But, he often
visits me in my dreams, which I consider a safer habitat than real life.)

Now, in my
current singleness, if I do receive responses from my Our Time United Nations,
I'll likely reject some, and be rejected by others. There may be dates
involved; evenings that include uncomfortable high heels (me), dreaded
auditions and boring biographies (both) -- all while my mind is zeroing in on
his comb-over, toupee, paunch, age spots, or other blots. (He is likely doing
the same when it is my turn to drone. How
can she be so short? Why does she tolerate those wrinkles? Hasn't she heard of
hair dye?)

I can handle
those potential episodes. What I fear, I now realize, is that I haven't shucked
enough neediness and am ripe for another wrong guy. Could a hunger for holding
hands while strolling the river walk, or the scent of a freshly washed shirt
while in a man's hug, and perhaps the chance to call someone "honey" shove
me towards an unsuitable male?